Bloodstone Page 14

  “Take?”

  “Drugs. Drinks. Herbs.”

  “Nothing. Well . . . water. Afterward. To clear my head.”

  “You take nothing to open your powers?”

  “Nay.”

  The Zheron made him repeat his answers twice before turning to the older man for a swift, muted conversation.

  Keirith let his head droop, still reeling from what he had seen on their faces, what they had revealed through their questions. They understood his power. There had been surprise, aye, but mostly that his gift was untaught. So the Zherosi—some of them, anyway—must possess the same power. And clearly did not consider it an abomination. It sickened him to realize that only among his enemies could his power be accepted.

  “Do you speak to the gods?”

  “What? Nay.”

  “Do your priests?”

  “Aye. That is, a priest has a spirit guide. An animal. Who helps him cross between the worlds. Helps him communicate with the gods.”

  “And your mother? The healer? Does she communicate with the gods?”

  “Nay. But she—”

  He broke off. The Zheron was watching him, his expression eager. Keirith felt a trickle of sweat ooze down his side. He had almost told them his mam had spoken with the Trickster. He must be more careful.

  “She calls on the gods. To aid her healing.”

  “The scribe of the Jhef d’Esqi says that you knew of the shaking of the earth before it happened. Is this true?”

  He started to nod, then hesitated. “I knew something would happen. I didn’t know the earth would shake.”

  This provoked a heated exchange between the Zheron, the Slave Master, and the Speaker. By the end of it, the Speaker’s expression of satisfaction had dwindled to one of fearful appeasement.

  “The Zheron says you will tell him what happened.”

  He told them, choosing his words carefully. Unless he remained vigilant, he might reveal something that could endanger not only his life, but the lives of his fellow captives.

  “Which animals spoke?”

  “There were many.”

  “Did their voices sound alike?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then you heard different animals.”

  “Aye, but they were all screaming. Terrified. There were dogs. And birds—I don’t know what kind. And sheep, I think. And the adders, of course.”

  The older woman gasped. In the prolonged silence that followed, he realized he had made a terrible error. The faces of the Zherosi revealed shock, wonder, disbelief. Only the older man seemed unmoved, although he leaned forward on the bench.

  The Zheron slowly descended the steps. “You heard the adders speak?”

  “I . . . I think so. It all happened so fast . . .”

  “What did their voices sound like?”

  “Like . . . like adders. Low. Hissing.”

  “Many snakes hiss. You said adders.”

  “My spirit guide is an adder. They sounded like him.”

  “You said only priests had spirit guides.”

  Another error.

  The Zheron’s hand darted out and Keirith shrank away, but strong fingers seized his chin and forced him to look up. “And you claimed you were not a priest.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But you have a spirit guide. An adder.”

  “Because I wanted to be a priest. Once. Natha—my spirit guide—came to me. But I’m not a priest. I’m not even an apprentice anymore.”

  He was saying too much. They would hear the desperation in his voice, see the way he was shaking, and know he was hiding something.

  The older man beckoned the Zheron, then addressed the spectators. The four men bowed and backed away. Keirith could feel the Big One’s gaze, but he refused to look at him. Their footsteps receded and there was silence.

  After a brief consultation with the older man, the Zheron straightened. Slowly, he descended the steps again. “Speak to them.”

  “What?”

  “Speak to the adders. Now.”

  “I can’t.”

  The Zheron circled him like a hungry wolf. A sneer twisted his lips. “You lied.”

  “Nay.”

  “You cannot speak to the adders.”

  “I never said I could. I heard them. Screaming.”

  The Zheron bent over him and Keirith flinched. “You miserable savage. Do you think you can deceive us?”

  “I wasn’t . . . what do you want?”

  “I want you to speak to the adders.”

  “I can’t! It doesn’t work that way.”

  “How does it work?”

  “I don’t know. I just . . . reach out. And if the bird or the animal permits me, I can touch its spirit.”

  “And a man? Can you touch a man?” The Zheron’s sneer vanished, replaced by a smile. “Could you touch me?”

  Sickened by the girl’s seductive whisper, Keirith swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat and looked at the floor.

  “Do you want to touch me, little savage?”

  Cool fingers brushed his cheek. Keirith slapped them away, only to have the guards seize his elbows.

  “Touch me. I want you to. I want to feel you inside of me.”

  He shook his head, fighting down the impotent fury.

  “You want to. I know you do. You want it so much you’re shaking.”

  Keirith averted his face, but he was helpless to stop the fingers that traced a cool, lingering path down his jaw. He jerked his head away, wild to escape, but the Zheron seized his face between his hands. The dark eyes stared into his, the full mouth curved in a teasing smile.

  “Or shall I take you? Would you like that better?”

  The power surged, fed by fury and shame so intense that he thought he would scream if he couldn’t release it. His blood pounded in his ears, a frenzied drumbeat that urged him to let go, to seek the release, to obliterate that mocking smile and shatter his enemy’s spirit.

  “Shall I be gentle? No. You like it rough, don’t you? Rough and hard and—”

  Screaming, he hurled his power at his tormentor. The man staggered backward, tripping over the step. Keirith touched shock and disbelief. A savage joy filled him, more intense than any emotion he had ever known. He pushed harder, wanting to destroy that sneering spirit, to send it hurtling out of the man’s body into Chaos, to feel his scream, to taste his helpless terror.

  Instead, he felt . . . nothing. As if the connection between them had abruptly been severed. The Zheron lay slumped on the steps, his shoulders rising and falling in quick breaths. He slowly raised his head and grimaced—not in pain, but as if the touch had contaminated him.

  Keirith swayed, drained by the release of the energy and the long interrogation and his sense of failure. When the guards released him, he collapsed to the floor and lay there, too spent and humiliated to care what they did to him.

  During the raid, his arrows had brought down raiders, but until now, he had never felt such an overwhelming desire to kill. This was what the Tree-Father had feared. This was why his father had reacted with such horror. They had known he possessed this potential for violence, that one day, he would turn his power on someone with the deliberate intent to destroy.

  “Merciful Maker,” he whispered. “Help me.”

  He heard footsteps approaching and opened his eyes. A face swam into focus. The older man knelt beside him. Keirith flinched, but the man made no move to touch him.

  “You are tired,” he said. “You must rest. Go with the guards.” His panic must have been obvious, for the man added, “No one will harm you.”

  The guards lifted him to his feet. He wanted very much to walk out of the chamber unaided, but his legs wouldn’t support him. The Zheron had risen as well. His voice was as strong as ever as he rapped out an order. The girl rose and bowed, wrists crossed over her breasts, before walking away. Not once did she glance in his direction. Keirith was surprised how much that hurt.

  “Don’t be a fool.”<
br />
  Even if she could help him, she wouldn’t. She had survived this long by obeying her masters and ignoring the plight of her people.

  Keirith allowed the guards to help him from the chamber. He drew up short at the doorway and looked over his shoulder. The older man was watching him. In his exhaustion, the words had simply flowed over him. But the man had spoken to him directly, without the aid of a translator. With utter fluency, he had spoken the language of the tribes.

  Malaq returned the boy’s stare, absently toying with the vial of qiij that hung around his neck. As soon as the guards escorted him out, he turned to Xevhan who still looked a bit shaken from the attack. Malaq chided himself for enjoying that.

  “He didn’t hurt you?”

  “Of course not. Once I erected the barrier, he simply . . . stopped.”

  “When did you take the qiij?” he asked quietly.

  Xevhan hesitated. “After I received your summons. It was a wise precaution,” he added defensively.

  He’d guessed as much from Xevhan’s restlessness and the light sheen of perspiration on his face. Of more concern was his haggard appearance. All priests took qiij—to facilitate communication with the gods, to touch the spirit of another—but there were always those who used the drug for pleasure. Xevhan was young enough—and arrogant enough—to ignore the long-term effects.

  “He made no attempt to breach the shield?” Malaq asked.

  “He clearly did not possess the skill.”

  Or had decided that he had demonstrated too much of his power. Or was simply too exhausted to try.

  “How did you guess what would provoke him?” Xevhan asked.

  Malaq shrugged. “The Tree People are less broad-minded about sexual relations. Particularly those between members of the same sex.”

  “We are fortunate that you know so much about their customs.”

  Xevhan’s voice and expression held only respect, but Malaq sensed the hidden barb.

  He heard Eliaxa’s slow shuffle, but before he could go to her, Xevhan vaulted up the steps with the graceful—if annoying—exuberance of youth and offered his arm. She gave him a quick smile, but her expression remained distracted. “Do other Tree People possess this power?”

  No barb in Eliaxa’s words. He wondered if she even remembered his former ties to the Tree People; since her illness last winter, her mind was often as uncertain as her gait.

  “Their priests claim to use spirit animals to guide them into trance, rather than rely on qiij or similar brews. It is said that the shaman of each tribe has the power to touch the spirits of his people.”

  “But one so young? He cannot be older than sixteen.”

  Without correcting her, Malaq said, “Even among our first-year Zhiisti, we see varying degrees of power. Some need only a sip of qiij to slip the bonds of their bodies. Others require so much that they are rendered helpless for days.”

  Xevhan’s breath hissed in, and Malaq gave him a mild glance. Inwardly, though, he chided himself again.

  You imagine an insult and must get a bit of your own back by reminding him of his lack of skill. Childish. And foolish. Xevhan’s spiritual powers may be limited, but his earthly connections are not. How else could he have risen to Zheron before his twenty-fifth summer? At that age, I hadn’t even begun my training as a priest.

  Eliaxa appeared oblivious to the undercurrents. Her wrinkles deepened as she frowned. “Will you conduct the testing yourself?”

  “If I may speak, Pajhit . . . ?” The title dripped off Xevhan’s lips like honey.

  “Yes?”

  “The slave Hircha may prove useful again. She could question the boy. Under my supervision, of course.”

  And report everything to her master, of course.

  “She was helpful today,” Malaq replied. “It was kind of you to suggest summoning her so that I might save my strength. But for now, the fewer people who come in contact with this boy, the better. And since I have some . . . facility with the language, it should only take a day or two to resolve this matter.”

  “As you command, Pajhit.” Xevhan bowed stiffly, both the smile and the honey gone.

  “It might be advisable to remind the Jhef d’Esqi and the others that we require their silence. We do not want untoward rumors flying about the city.”

  “I will see to it personally, Pajhit.”

  Malaq turned to Eliaxa. She looked so frail. She had been priestess of Womb of Earth even before he had come to Pilozhat after the Long Winter. It was time for her to step aside and allow a younger, stronger woman to assume the responsibilities of Motixa.

  “You look tired, my dear. May I see you back to your chamber?”

  She nodded, still distracted. Her small hand grasped his arm with surprising strength. “Is it possible, Malaq? Could he be the one?”

  Malaq patted her hand, the flesh dry and slack beneath his fingertips. “He’s just a boy with red hair and a gift for touching spirits. He’s no different than the others.”

  “The others did not speak to the adders. Or make Womb of Earth tremble.”

  “Neither did he,” Malaq reminded her gently. “He heard their voices—along with those of other creatures—crying out in fear. Womb of Earth trembled as she has many times before. Perhaps he is more sensitive than the others, but that is all.”

  Her fingers dug into his forearm. “You’ll make sure, Malaq? We must be sure. If he is the one and we fail to recognize him . . .”

  “I’ll make sure. I always do.”

  “Perhaps Heart of Sky will give you a sign. You are his priest, and he loves you.”

  In his five years as Pajhit, he’d seen little evidence of the god’s love, but it would only upset Eliaxa to hear that.

  Before he could assure her that he would seek the god’s guidance, she began reciting the prophecy in an eerie sing-song. “Hail the Son of Zhe, the fire-haired god made flesh. Welcome him with reverence and with dread, for with him comes the new age.”

  “Yes, dear. Please. Calm yourself. I hate to see you so distressed.”

  “I’m sorry. I only wish . . .” Tears filled her eyes and spilled down the deep grooves around her mouth. “All my life, I’ve dreamed of his coming. I pray for it every day. We need him now, so badly.”

  He patted her hand again. “I know. But you must rest now.”

  Still muttering the words of the prophecy, she let him lead her from the hall.

  Just a boy with red hair and a gift for touching spirits. That’s all. He’s no more the Son of Zhe than he is my son.

  Chapter 13

  DURING THE DAY, Griane kept herself busy. She and Sali visited the convalescents, checking wounds, changing bandages, dispensing potions to aid sleep or reduce fever. They gathered watercress and nettle shoots for tonics, willow bark and yarrow for the joint-ill and fevers, mallow leaves for poultices, goose grass for straining milk, and elderflowers and violets for infusions to combat coughs.

  Some days, she helped the other women in the fields, grubbing out weeds, tenderly urging the newly sprouted stalks of barley and oats to stand upright. Once, she took Callie with her to raid the nests of tufted ducks, but he preferred spending his days with the shepherds. Even a six-year-old could help, and while he was busy throwing stones at marauding foxes or trotting back and forth to Eagles Mount with baskets of food for the weary shepherds, he would not worry so much about his father and brother.

  Lisula remained confident that Darak would find Keirith, and while Griane sat beside her in the birthing hut, she was confident, too. But late at night, she lay under the wolfskins, alone with her fears.

  Two nights before the Ripening, she sought out Gortin. He seemed to have aged years in the sennight since the attack, but he, too, was driving himself hard, visiting the injured, offering prayers and sacrifices for the dead, even joining the men who mounted a watch every night on the summit of Eagles Mount.

  “Forgive me for intruding,” she said as Gortin motioned her to sit.

  “You�
�re not. I welcome your company.”

  For five summers, he and Meniad had shared this hut. How empty it must be for Gortin now. The sooner he accepted Othak as his initiate, the better. She didn’t know whether the shy boy would make a very good priest, but at least Gortin would have company and Othak would be safe from Jurl’s beatings.

  “I’m glad you came tonight,” Gortin said. “I’ve been wanting . . . I’ve been thinking about you. About Keirith.”

  A spasm of pain crossed his face. Impulsively, she touched his arm. He surprised her by clutching her hand. Immediately, he released it, clearly embarrassed.

  “I had to dismiss him,” he said in a low voice. “But I didn’t . . . I should have handled it better. I think . . . I’m not very good. With people.”

  “Neither was Struath.” Remembering how he still idolized his mentor, she quickly added, “Or Darak when he was younger.”

  “Tinnean was. Everyone loved him. And Meniad. What fine Tree-Fathers they would have made.” When she nodded, the smallest smile lightened his heavy features. “Thank you for not trying to assure me that I am superior to them.”

  “You’re a good Tree-Father, Gortin. And a good man. But . . .”

  “Well? You can’t stop there.”

  “For mercy’s sake, stop comparing yourself to Struath. Or Tinnean or Meniad, for that matter. Meniad died young and beautiful, Struath gave his life to defeat Morgath, and Tinnean saved the world! You can never compete with that. Besides, Struath might have been a gifted shaman, but he was also . . . cold. Forgive me, but it’s true. Tinnean was the sweetest boy I’ve ever known but he could be horribly impulsive, and Meniad . . . well, even when he wasn’t having visions, his head was in the clouds.”

  She broke off, horrified at delivering such a tirade. Again Gortin surprised her, this time by laughing. “And you are refreshingly honest but a terrible scold. Mother Netal would be proud.”

  “Nay, it’s awful. Old as I am, I should know better than to blurt things out without thinking.” She hesitated, wondering how to turn the conversation to the purpose of tonight’s visit without spoiling this rare moment of intimacy.